


Can't Shake This Feeling

by JohnlockAndATardis



Category: TANIS - Fandom, The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Canon Divergent, F/F, F/M, Greece, M/M, Modern Era, Reincarnation, Soulmate AU, Stragan - Freeform, Time Travel, Victorian era, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:31:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6306652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnlockAndATardis/pseuds/JohnlockAndATardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strand doesn't believe in the concepts of soulmates or reincarnation. Except in the lives where he does. As for Alex, she's always had a hard time knowing. </p><p>-</p><p>Strand and Alex are soulmates. Neither one of them know it yet. An exploration into their past lives, and what is yet to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1893 - Setting the Mood

     Alex Reagan was proud of the work she did, no matter how many dissenting voices proclaimed it to be little more than superstition. To her, the path she had chosen in life was much more rewarding than that of a housewife, schoolteacher, or governess. It must be noted also that her career was certainly more profitable, though the matter of money had always come as secondary to the impact she had. Alex enjoyed the work, no matter how strenuous it might prove to be, and she took delight in the expressions of gratitude she so often received from her clients. She could have given it all up years ago, of course, for this Victorian society had rewarded her handsomely in return for the role she played, stoking the embers of their belief in otherworldly things, the so called paranormal or supernatural. Alex resented both terms -they appeared to her to suggest that these things were inexplicable or unreal, as though her abilities were mere tricks to entertain those who came into one’s salon. Though she could not articulate fully how it came to be that she had these powers nor understand even for herself why or what caused them to work, Alexandra knew they were very real, and she believed all real things must thusly be natural in some way, springing from an organic source as she felt the soul to be. Who better to understand than she, and who worse than the skeptics who closed their minds to that which they already had conceived to be impossible?

     On the matter of skeptics…

    “Alex,” a voice called from the front hallway, just off of the salon where she had been seated, fingers fumbling at the grand piano. Her brother Nicodemus had purchased it for her a some time before, when they discovered her companion -for that was what they called it in private, away from the public’s knowing ear- was a fluent pianist. It was Nic who had called, and a moment later entered the room in which she was seated. “You have guests,” he informed her in that pleasant tone of his which leant to memories of childhood and schoolyards. Alex rose and, with a whisper and rustling of her skirts, found herself to the doorway where she looked upon a small party three in number. It was the sole man who struck out to her, black of hair with a wisened grey about the temples and the most wise blue-grey eyes she had ever thought to see. He was polished in his dress, donning a deep charcoal suit of three pieces as was fashionable. A silver pocket-watch hung upon a chain tucked into his trousers, the ornate cover only just peaking out.

     “Doctor Strand,” she greeted the man with warm surprise, knowing his face at once as though it were that of an old friend. The doctor, however, appeared quite stricken with surprise.

     “Have we met?” he inquired, to which Alex laughed and shook her head.

    “I am afraid not yet in this life,” she answered, to which he would cock his head only just.

    “Then you must have seen my likeness in this week’s edition of The Inquisitor. The sketch, though rough and unflattering, was much less slanderous to my person than the article, I assure you.”

    But Alex could only give a second gesture of contradiction. “Neither myself nor my brother take part in the reading of the Inquisitor. It is the Daily Sun we prefer, a much more reputable source.” Alex opened the door wider. “I pray you, come in. What business have you here, Doctor Strand?”

     “These are my associates, Miss Ruby Carver and Miss Melissa Jones. I thought you might find yourself most comfortable were I to bring female assistants,” he would respond, as though this in some way provided an answer to the question recently posed. Alex could not help the reflex that sent her brow arching artfully upwards.

    “Perhaps I have not made myself perfectly clear, Doctor Strand, or maybe it is yourself who has had fault, but in either case the meaning for this visit remains lost upon myself.”

    Strand would pause to consider her now that he was within her home, looking fantastically contradictory to the burgundy wallpaper she had installed in a fit of fancy. “I am here to research, Miss Reagan,” he clarified. “I was under the impression my man had come to gain your permission on this matter?”

     She thought hard. These past three days she had been more her companion than herself, and had slipped thusly back into the recesses of her mind while the other stretched their limbs and went out upon excursions. It was all too possible, she knew from experience, that she had lost herself completely for a time.

    “I recall,” Alex would lie, smiling amiably. “Tell me again, the exact topic of your research?”

    “Ah, yes,” Strand nodded. “It is my goal to ascertain the reality of and to examine factors pertaining to the resulting perception of paranormal phenomenon.”

    “You are a skeptic?” Alex inquired, her smile faltering. Doctor Strand confirmed this. “And you mean to use your research to make me a hoax.”

     “Not in so many words, Miss Reagan. As I have said, I mean to examine the factors which would allow the perception of that which may appear magical or to have mystical sources.”

    Her jaw set tightly and Alex forced herself to be restrained as, in her mind, a voice that was not her own made a harsh comment towards the doctor. She could not repeat such things, and would thusly close the door in a polite fashion as she gathered her thoughts.

     “I certainly welcome your research, Doctor Strand, and I am glad the scientific community has taken to turning its head the way of a field I hold most dear. But I warn you, doctor, if you seek charlatans and falsehoods with which to proclaim the work of myself false, you will not find your wishes easily met.”

     “As you do say, Miss Reagan.” Strand would shift his weight, the carpeting muffling the noise of his shifting feet. “Have you a parlor in which we might sit?”

     “This way, Doctor Strand.” Gesturing behind her, she led the man and those who had accompanied into the now quiet parlor, misty sunlight of a grey quality passing through the window’s glass panes. “Tea?” she offered in the manner of a proper hostess. Strand shook his head. ”

    “No, thank you. I would much prefer if we began immediately.” He and his assistants gathered around the circular table, placing a heavy black case upon the lace runner. He removed a number of peculiar objects from within, and Alex watched with reluctant fascination as he placed these specifically about the room, meticulous in his motions. When his devices were placed about to his satisfaction and he had examined the room for as well as taken down a number of what she could only assume to be measurements, Doctor Strand turned and fixed his eyes upon herself once more.

    “I would like, if you would be agreeable, for you to conduct yourself as you would typically. At some point I may ask you to comply to certain small desires of my own, pertaining to my research. You are certainly welcome to refuse these, if you choose.”

     Alex nodded her head in understanding and would place about the walls a number of tall, tapered white candles. She drew the shutters tight, plunging the room into darkness but for the flickering flames. Her brother shut the doors and they together sat about the table. She became aware of a thrumming within her, and her companion seemed to sing, its power tingling at her fingertips. She felt a tingle of nervous energy not unusual to her work, a furious excitement to know she would soon be lifting the veil between this world and the next. As the table was cleared and they all sat, she took a glance Doctor Strand, who sat to her immediate right, and wondered on his impenetrable thoughts. He would meet get eyes but it was not long before Alex tore away her gaze, noting Strand’s assistants and the device between them. Strand explained that it was designed to monitor motion, and that it was placed upon the table to make certain that no one present was influencing the session via mechanisms or other such forces. Alex might have thought of reminding Doctor Strand that he had already examined the underside of the table, but held her tongue instead. Her companion did not refrain from whispering comments only she could hear, and Alex pleaded with her friend to keep such things between they two. She received only silence in response.

    “We’ll start with the talking board,” Alex would say, gesturing to the object currently waiting for them. Its polished and smooth oak face was, to Alex a familiar presence, the white and glass of the planchette an old friend. Her eyes did not raise but she reached out to those now cast in physical shadows, noting the air of childish excitement about the two women. In her earliest days when she had performed for larger groups, such was to be expected, but now that she had gained a steady clientele and with the mass producing of these boards, Alex often found those to be seated at her table to be of a serious sort. She welcomed this change in aura, for the response with those so charged was often much greater than that of those who had grown used to communicating, stronger with the more energy the spirit had to draw from.

    “We now place two fingers upon this center piece, the planchette, am I correct?” Strand’s voice came in a rumbling baritone at her side as he gestured to the heart-shaped object. Alex nodded.

    “You are, Doctor Strand, but I have to ask that I guide the conversation. The spirits will be easily confused if we both attempt to lead this séance.”

     “Of course. I'm sorry.” Strand would bow his head politely and then they would each place their index and middle fingers about the board. Alex slowly guided those about the table to move the planchette, feeling the heat of their presence in her fingertips, the warmth of five souls sharing in one another’s energy. There was for a moment silence, no sounds but for soft breathing and the indiscernible whispers of the candles. Only when she could feel the proper strength for it did Alex speak, and break this quiet.

     “Gentle spirits, we invite you into our presence. We welcome you kindly, and accept you into this room, beings of amiable and benign disposition.”

     Nothing happened, for a moment. The warmed planchette sat stationary upon the ‘G’ as a deeper hush settled over the room. Strand coughed softly, his assistant -Melissa, she thought- squirmed uncomfortably in her high backed chair. The air of their doubt was overwhelming, so much so that she almost thought to fear the possibility that the spirits would not come.

     But then, the planchette slid. It was nearly imperceptible, so small it might appear to be a mistake. And then, another inch. And another. It slid until it came forward to the sun, and then halted.

     “Yes?” Strand read aloud in confusion as the planchette lay upon the word. But Alex was no longer so concerned.

     “Sometimes the spirits are confused when they enter our world, Doctor Strand. It is possible they are simply telling us they are here.”

     The planchette backed away from the sun several inches, and then in an arch, returned to its prior place of rest.

     “You see? Now we can start to ask it questions. It is polite to ask a spirit first questions of itself,” she explained to Strand kindly, before fixing her eyes and full attention back upon the talking board.

     “Spirit, will you tell us your name?”

     The planchette slid. J-O-N-A-T-H-A-N. Jonathan, it read. Strand did not scoff, but Alex could feel in his energy the doubt he carried high upon his shoulders. It was a common name, and did not satisfy him. Alex doubted that any name would have. They continued.

     “Jonathan, how old is your soul now?”

     1-7-5

    “And how old were you when you died?”

     1-9. Nineteen. They went on as such, progressing from questions of the mundane to those which were more specific. Throughout the course of this session, Strand’s unspoken conviction in the falseness of the ordeal became continuously more apparent, though he never verbalized again his doubt. At last, as they had bid their spirit farewell, he stood rather abruptly, and went to that mysterious case he had, at her bidding, set to the side. From it, he procured a number of thick black cloths some one to two feet in length. Blindfolds. Alex’s mind came to this conclusion quite rapidly and she felt a flush overcome her cheeks. Those were times long ago,  Heaven help her if any should ever discover.

     “In the course of my research I have discovered a strange phenomenon that affecting the vision of those participating in the session affects directly the outcome. If you would?” He extended to her a blindfold, but Alex would only glance distastefully at it.

    “Doctor Strand, what you are asking me to do is to lose visual contact with the spirit board. This doesn't just risk dampening my ability to contact those upon another plane, you are leaving me less focused and therefore, less able to control what does and does not come through to us. You may not like the resulting effects.”

     His victorious grin was sickening, though minute. “If you would prefer-”

     “No.” Alex cut him off abruptly. “No. We may continue.” She snatched up the blindfold, snapping it from his extended palm with satisfaction at the surprise evident in his expression. “Am I correct in assuming that you mean to not participate?”

     Strand nodded.

     “Then Nic will sit to watch as well.” She nodded to her brother. “And you both will stand outside of the table.” Alex’s voice was stern and commanding, and when she spoke, the men obeyed. Her companion seemed to grin, though, without her, they had no body.

     With the men standing to the side and the three women’s visibility barred, their session began again. Alex was struck with the alien nature of her hands, blind upon the planchette. Though it warmed once more against her fingers and now would pulse with familiar energy, her hair was still raised in a heavy foreboding. She was distinctly aware of Strand’s presence directly behind her, and her back drew tight the more she focused on this truth, her muscles drawn taut to the point of discomfort. Alex breathed deeply and would then exhale, until she was calmed enough that she might call again upon the spirits. The medium was, admittedly quite surprised with the insistent drag upon her fingers.

     “H,” Strand’s cool and thunderous voice read, wind against her ear, seeming to cause the candles to tremble for she was bathed in a sudden heat. Alex could not help but shiver despite this, as her hand was pulled further. “E. L. L. O.” He pronounced each letter in careful succession, the aristocratic air of his tone seeming to caress her spine.

     “Spirit, will you tell us your name?”

    The planchette was dragged up firmly. “No,” Strand declared for the spirit. Alex’s brows furrowed, this was an atypical response.

     “Spirit, will you tell us your name?”

    The planchette dragged itself from the spot, but Alex could feel it pulling back the way they had just come. “No.” But Alex did not need Strand to tell her this. She felt the press of silence about the room, from even her companion to whom she reached out.

     “Spirit, what is your name?” Alex again inquired. The planchette was silent. “I command you, Spirit. Tell us your name.”

    The planchette moved so fast that she thought it might fly out her fingers. “I. H. A. V. E. M. A. N. Y.” Doctor Strand’s voice followed the flurry of letters until the words were spelled out for her to know. She swallowed hard, a sudden dryness invading her throat. Yet she felt as though she had to go on, that she must press forward.

    “Spirit, what should we call you here among us?”

     The planchette tugged her fingers again, slower now, deliberate. “W. H. A. T. I. H. A. V. E. L. A. T. E. L. Y. B. E. E. N. C. A. L. L. E. D.”

    “And what is that?”

    It paused, and she thought perhaps the spirit would not answer, that it would continue with this coy game of its. But then, slowly, her fingers were dragged across the board, Melissa and Ruby’s firm presence followed just as obediently after atop the planchette.

     “C,” Strand’s voice pronounced. “O.” The planchette moved again, in that same, tantalizingly slow pace. “R.” Strand hesitated, and the planchette did not continue to move, not until he uttered the next piece. “A. L. E. E.” These letters came in quick succession, and when they were done Strand drew in a breath part relief, part fear, and part something else. She could feel the change not only in his energy, but in that of his assistants.

      “Stop the session.”

      “What?” Alex answered, bewildered and uncharacteristically angered. 

     “Stop,” he repeated.

     “Doctor Strand, I don't really think that's wisest.” But before she could even take the time to process and make her decision, the planchette flew out of her hands. She felt about the board for it, and when her fingers could not find the piece Alex tore off her blindfold.

    The planchette fell down and began to spell again, in such a rapid flurry she could only just make out the words it spelled. Taul Paul. Pazuzu. Elemental. Grigori. Ruby and Melissa had by then ripped away that which confined their eyes, allowing them to take witness to the horror of the board, lost from her control. Faster and faster now, that which it wrote impossible to make out. Then, from the board there came a scream, a great howl as darkness erupted forth, canceling out all the lights in the room, dimming the candle. She could smell sulfur, and her blood drew cold as ice only to be seared through by a wave of liquid, burning heat, pressing out all senses until she was plunged into a world not her own, pulled through space and time. She saw a white room, a black figure, dark caves. The heavens unfolded and told her their plans, and she understood all, and she understood nothing.

    When she opened her eyes, she was looking into those of a man she had known a hundred times over.

    One-hundred and twenty years and two souls later, Alex Reagan entered the office of Doctor Richard Strand. She did not yet remember his face. 


	2. Present Day - How You Remind Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alex reflects on their pasts and what is to come. Porny sex ensues.

     They were gods once, at the very beginning, so many lifetimes ago. Alex might suppose that was the start of it, but any suspicion would go, unfortunately, unconfirmed. There was still so much about that first life that Alex did not know, that Strand could not recollect. They had sat together in a thousand existences and as many places, comparing what they recalled, each life gaining and losing parts of themselves, a perpetual game of give and take. She had begun to search for her past selves, for journals or documents, photographs and paintings, trying to unlock the mysteries of who she once had been. Yet the harder she looked, the less she could find. Delving deep into history, her history, felt almost impossible. Myths and legends were all she had, and perhaps, for this reason, Strand’s Black Tapes felt so important to her. They were like a key she couldn't fit just right, but the further she delved the closer she became to the truth.

     Here is what they knew:

 

     It began in the earliest days of man -they began, that is to say. In those times of old all things had spirits and all souls were recognized. The shadows were ghosts, the stars were great gods within the heavens. That's how she was born, on the tongues of mortal beings telling stories around the fires they'd recently learned to build. She was named in a language long since dead, forgotten even to herself. But she could not forget what it meant. Walker of Night. She was the face which smiled distantly, though serenely down upon them from the surface of the shimmering and inconsistent moon, and if they could climb to the highest point where the Earth and Heavens met, she would grace them with a kiss and they would have everlasting life. According to the legends of those first men, she was the daughter of the Great Blackness, the night sky, and that once she had been dark and cold and impossible to see by the mortal eye. But the Light of Life, the Sun, was so smitten to know her that he drew her into his arms and as they embraced the Moon was lit for the very first time.   
  
     But fate would not be so kind to the couple, and her sire, the Darkness, was angry that she had fallen in love with the Sun, when she was to be wed to the Earth. In his rage and vengeance, Darkness had cast she the Moon into the void, and swore that she would have neither as her companion. She was cursed to walk the dark and lonely skies each night, always away from her Sun. In his sorrow and anger, the Sun disappeared and plunged the world into an endless night. Its people began to shiver and die, and as she walked, Moon too suffered from the distance from Sun. Her light began to fade and she stumbled, until, on the twenty-eighth day and close to death, all her light went out. It was said by the early people that the Darkness at last gave pity and felt guilt for that which he had done to his daughter, and allowed Sun to go to her. But it was too late, and the last of her life fled her body. The Sun wept then over her darkened form, and his tears became the Stars. With each new star born, the Moon grew stronger, and Sun came to realize that it was light she needed. He kissed her and woke her from the spell of death, filling her spirit with his glow. The two, seeing the damage done to gentle Earth, walked the skies to her, and freed she from the veil of shadows. Each night from then on, when the Sun had finished his duties of warming of Earth, the Moon rose and would walk the Heavens, caring for the Stars, their children, and always basking the Earth in her light. And each month when the moonlight grows pale, she returns to her Sun, and together they create for her a new light, a new life, that she might live forever a hundred lifetimes and know his touch forevermore.

 

     The story was Alex’s favorite, though she could hardly imagine Strand weeping over anything. She cast her gaze towards him now, shifting uncomfortably in the off-white armchair she’d bought a few years before. He was still unused to her apartment, Alex thought. Unused to staying there. She was too, found the sight of him in her kitchen every morning making tea to be alien, but not unwelcome. He loved tea, and she had grown to love the sight of him with it. English breakfast alongside a morning newspaper -Strand was not fond of tablets. If he felt peckish when he woke, he would make breakfast (a whole-grain waffle with berries, two vegetarian breakfast sausage links, and a glass of orange juice) and chastise her in a manner half teasing on her own, admittedly pathetic, eating habits. Yet though he had been there for a month since the start of post-season two hiatus, and though they had come to realize the pasts they'd had together, there was still a stiffness to Strand’s attitude. Sometimes he would flow through the cramped spaces like water, and other times he would halt and look around in confusion, as though the room had been entirely rearranged. Alex understood, she felt it too. It wasn't just him being here, it was the knowing of what they were to one another. Sometimes she would be struck by a memory both hers and not, and would find herself reaching out for a person or thing that wasn't there. That never had been, because the life she was recalling was three hundred years and an ocean away. The knowing was still taking some getting used to, and she couldn’t imagine the change of scenery made it any easier for Strand. He must always feel as though he’s falling through time, Alex thought, watching as he turned a page. He was enticing, despite all his discomfort, and he was there, where she could reach out and touch him like she had never been able to before, when he was across the country and she was needing the heat of his body against hers. Determined, Alex folded away her laptop and rose, plucking the book from his hands and settling herself against him instead.

     “I was reading,” Strand informed her, his blue eyes clouded not so much with true annoyance but a flicker of minuscule irritation. Alex grinned broadly, leaned forward and kissed him, reveling in how his lips were so smooth against her own, how his mid-morning, hadn't shaved in a few days stubble scratched at her chin, how his mouth tasted like honey and cinnamon. She should have done this sooner, Alex thinks. She's had an infinity with him, but Christ, she should have done this sooner.

    “Read me instead,” she whispers, lips cascading a trail of kisses, following the arch of his cheek, not stopping until she was at the shell of his ear and could nibble just so to make him groan, to make his blood pulse. The words sound to her silly and almost juvenile, but then Strand is lifting her with his hands resting in a very improper place and he’s carrying her with a strength a man his age shouldn't have and oh-

    His lips have found their way at her own neck now. He sucks stars and entire constellations against the skin there, painting her body with the universe with each kiss, laving at each mark with plump lips just meant for ravishing her. She doesn't know how but her shirt is off and then so is his, and they're touching just like they are made to do, slotting together perfectly as she fumbles for his trousers, strains to undo them.

     Strand swats her hands away with a touch that is soft but forbidding. Her mischievous fingers recoil and she cocks her head to consider him as slowly, carefully, he eases her back onto the bed. His hands ease the sweatpants she is wearing down her hips, placing greedy kisses at the places where her bones are most obvious, suckling the skin with the sweetness of a lover and a sultry passion that admits his experience. Further he pulls the fabric of her pants, until she’s left in only her underclothes, skin so hot from Strand’s affections that she is simultaneously shivering and burning.

     He catches her foot in his grasp and kisses at her ankle, licking the concave space in the most indecent way and how can that feel so good? She wants to asks and makes a mental note to do that later, but then Strand is moving upwards and those sinful lips of his are nipping the length of her calf and all brainfunction goes offline. With a rush of fire her blood pools at her stomach and there is a decided wetness between her thighs as he takes his time pulling her apart with that mouth of his, that mouth that must have been carved by an artisan for this express purpose. His tongue though… His tongue is even better. It tracks under her knee and then up, finding her inner thigh and cooling the heated flesh. He’s teasing her now, drawing patterns over her skin as if she’s a blank canvas and he’s preparing to recreate a Monet. She wouldn't mind this if his breath wasn't so tantalizingly close to the one place where she needs it the most, and her hands catch at his hair, twining and tugging those fantastic greying locks, seeking to urge him deeper.

     Strand pulls away, licks his lips. Her features go red, like a shamed child found with sweets before dinner, and fuck, of course he looks pleased at that. “Now, Alexa,” Strand slowly drawls and Alex swears she is going to disable both of their twitters because it just does something to her when he calls her that in his almost patronizing tone, and he knows it. He takes advantage of how flustered Alex gets, somewhere between flaring annoyance and and lust that drives her utterly wild, that makes her want to sink her teeth into Strand and brand him with her mark. He smiles almost wider as if he knows what she’s thinking, looking so smug she considers gagging him or otherwise putting his mouth to better use. And then, Strand speaks.

     “If you aren't going to behave, I can find someone else to play with,” he teases her, and it's too much, the slow simmer in her veins is now set to boiling and suddenly she’s pushing him off of the bed, her small frame draping against his as she shoves him against the door. Strand gives a grunt of discomfort but neither of them really care, too far gone with one another. Their lips meet in a biting kiss, each one reminding their lover of whose the other is. She pulls away with a sharp nip, and it's all fingers and hands and frantic touches again as she shoves his trousers down and sends his briefs following, letting them rest just off of his hips as she finds her prize and wraps her fingers about him. He's hot in her palm and cries her name into her hairline as she jerks him, the pad of her thumb swiping teasingly over the tip just to hear him groan again and feel him pump into her grip, desperate for her touch, for a pleasure only she can give. Alex is the one who grins now as she traces the bolbus head, letting her deft fingers work over his shaft, slicked by his desire. It does something to her, to have him at her mercy, pressing up into her palm as though it is so much tighter and so much wetter, and the way that he grunts her name as she twists her hand just so almost sends her knees buckling. She’s just begun with him, and already he sounds strung out, like she's been holding him over the edge for hours now, and she knows that feeling all too well, that desperation of too much not enough that makes her keen and mewl when he explores her with his lips. She wants him, wants to take him right there against the door and feel him within her, but they both know it works better when she’s the one pressed up against something so she shifts their bodies, drawing him closer with a tug at his cock. Strand seems to understand, certainly is aware of her want because it's his too, and then his hands are at her waist in a touch that might just be bruising and he pulls her up, giving her time enough to wrap her legs around his frame as he fumbles for her panties before he’s pushed them aside and slid himself into her core.

     The noise she makes when he begins to enter her should be embarrassing, Alex realizes through the fog of sensation, the haze of _morepleasefuckhesinside_ that drives her utterly wild every time they do this. For a moment they are both still, panting against each other, and then he's rocking up into her like waves of the tide against the shore. He’s slow with her, letting her get used to the stretch of his girth, letting her grow accustomed to how large he is, and the pace is maddening, making her aware on a near spiritual level of each press of him within her. She can feel his veins, the way that the head of his cock catches on every single nerve ending inside of her and out, connecting them in a way that is so much more than physical. And then he's to the hilt, and he completely stills his hips again. Their eyes meet and Strand leans in to kiss her, pressing against parts of Alex’s body she hadn't been aware could be reached until him as he does so. Her hand catches in his hair, the other at his cheek, kissing him deeply, feeling him against her.

    “I can take it,” Alex tells Strand, the okay to go ahead, that she's ready, that she wants this just as badly as he does, because lord knows Strand is nothing but a gentleman, for the first few moments at least. He kisses her again, once more, lets his tongue chase after hers, and then, with precise motions, he begins to move. His prick fills her marvelously, white hot inside of her slick channel, and Alex can't think of anything but him, but his touch, the way he is holding her like they both might die without the other. His lips pull away and slips down, suckling at the curve of her breast until she can find the leverage she needs to cast her bra to the side. The angle of her hips drives him against a bridge of nerves deep inside and she cants her body this way with a breathless gasp as his lips find her nipple and then, oh god help her he's sucking at it and his hips are moving just so and she can't tell which sensation to focus on but it's all so good and she is being consumed by her own desire.

     “Strand,” Alex whispers as she urges their bodies together, his name like a song, like a prayer, and she would believe in God if it could explain the sensations running throughout her now. It’s absolute perfection, all of it, and Alex doesn't think she’ll last long but she doesn't care, she just wants to feel him make her come undone. Her fingers flit between her legs and then Strand’s hand is joining her, gathering her close to bring her to the bed once more. He lets his touch wander towards her clit and she absolutely sobs when he reaches it, when he presses his thick digit against that glistening pearl and rubs until she begins to feel her muscles clamping tight around him. Her body is going faster now, taking the pace she chooses as he drives her higher and higher, every single touch raising her until her body bucks forward and her head falls back, and she cries his name, bent like a bow and trembling as much as a finely played instrument. But Strand doesn't stop, he doesn't let up his touches and if Alex had her wits about her she might suspect that he’s actually increased his attentions, but everything inside of her has snapped and she's still feeling it straining to come back together. Her nerves are on fire and she can feel aftershocks working their way out, radiating from the heat of their joined sex down, into her very toes and working their way deep into her bones. Alex shudders, gasps as she blindly grabs for his shoulders and just holds Strand as he thrusts into her. Once, twice, three times and then he’s spilling into Alex and she thinks maybe they should have used a condom but the thought is gone as his release works its way into her body and she collapses atop him, gasping and panting still.

     If she dies, Alex thinks as her tongue catches on the sweat formed at Richard’s shoulder, this is how she’d like to go. 


	3. 412 B.C.E.: The Devil in the Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the height of the war between the Athenian Empire and Sparta, General Straton takes captive a priestess by the name of Aleksandra, who has seen his image in the flames. He doesn't know what draws him to her, and can only hope the attraction will soon pass. 
> 
> Or the one where I shamelessly steal part of the upcoming plot from the old Hercules TV show.

     He never wanted to be a general, and had an abhorrence for war and violence. It made him an outcast amongst his peers, an oddity. Most often, it made him a target. He’d endured through his lifetime more kicks and punches from his fellow Spartan men than from the Athenians they fought. Yet, despite all of his contempt for death and killing, despite his desire to help rather than hurt, to understand rather than meet logic with rage and death, Strand -as his men called him- had found himself leading an army by the age of seventeen. His men and those who had given him command praised his mind, which was from youth tuned and bred for battle. He was sharp witted, with the singular ability to see clearly what obstacles might lay in his way, and thusly had found himself in position to lead an assembly of five hundred strong young men, though he had done his best to prevent this from coming to pass. Now, in a valley laden between two mountains he was examining the plans for yet another battle. They had just sacked a city this day, but it would not be long before he was being urged forth, to take more land. To claim more lives.

     “Sir,” a voice came from his rear. Strand’s hand went to his blade for only a moment, before he processed that voice, before the one which laughed in his mind said he would not allow his vessel to die so soon. He turned with laxing shoulders to face one of his men, a lad of thirteen with a handsome but scarred face, come to train under himself. Strand inclined his head, welcoming the boy to speak.

     “One of the prisoners, sir. A woman, she called your name directly and demanded your presence. No threat could earn her silence.”

     No threat could earn her silence. The words echoed within his ear like the beating of so many drums before and even after a battle, like the heavy thumping of a thousand boots. How could this be the motto of their people, to always go fort with violence as their solution? He had already gave instructions to his men that no woman may be laid a hand upon in any sort of malignant fashion, and yet they gave cruelty already to those he had made prisoner. Strand huffed a sigh of annoyance and would nod.

     “Very well. Take me to this woman.”

     “Take you to her?” the lad repeated in surprise. Strand inclined his head, and the boy would lead him forth. Out from his tent they went, the sky bleeding coral into the coming night as he passed men cleaning from their swords the carnage which had earned their victory. It bled almost black onto the uneven terrain, reminding him of the darkness he had that day seen. It was a foul thing, to watch a man’s entrails be ripped from his own form. Strand strengthened his resolve and continued on his way.

     The women and other such vulnerable prisoners were, at his word, being kept at the edge of the camp under the strict guard of his most trusted soldiers. There was one in particular who caught his eye, and Strand could not help but be struck by the beauty of her. Her olive skin glimmered in the fading light, her hair thick and black, messsed and matted now in suggestion of heavy physical exursion. The golden ornaments which fashionably decorated her locks clung now to the tight curls, by some magic protected from the many man who would like to claim them as their own. She was not tall by any accounts, but stood as though she met his own spectacular height, with a sort of knowing within her charcoal eyes. As he drew closer, he noted that both her blue himation and the undyed chiton beneath were torn and bloodied, laden heavily with dirt. She looked like Athena, the only goddess he would ever pray to. She looked majestic. But that blood...

      _It is not hers_ , the voice came in his mind as he stopped before the woman. Strand both silenced the voice and hoped for the words it spoke to hold immediate truth. He raised his head high and halted before her, her dark eyes seeming to peer into his own. She stepped forward before she could even be beckoned, reaching the edge of the corral structure within which she was contained. Her heavy lashes appeared to drape over her cheeks, but could not disguise the wisdom and intellect in her gaze.

     “General Straton.” She nodded her head politely, her voice holding no doubt as to his identity. His lip quipped.

     "I'm afraid I find myself at a disadvantage,” Strand’s response came. “You have knowledge of my name, but I have none of your own.”

     The woman smiled. “Aleksandra,” her response came with an easy tone. Strand felt the most peculiar shiver along the length of his spine, as though the breeze were caressing his flesh. There was a knowing in her eyes that seemed to say she was aware of the sensation. The awareness within the woman’s face was unnerving to him, but he displayed none of this upon his features, unable to fully imagine how his men would react to know a woman could make him so uncomfortable.

     “Aleksandra,” Strand echoed. “How came you to know of me?”

     She smiled. “I know more than you might think, General Strand. Fitting, I think, for a priestess of the temples.”

     Zeus help him. It was a terrible crime to molest a temple, both moral and legal. He again caught his gaze upon the blood which stained her garments. His eyes caught at the faces of his men, and then again at the woman, Aleksandra. The priestess. He brought forth his shortsword, and watched as she steadied her stance. She was not afraid, though many behind her took steps further back. The woman held out her hands expectantly, and his blade was brought through the rope which bound them, taking special care to lay no harm upon her. Opening the makeshift gate, he led the woman forth.

     “Bread and meat,” he declared to the lad at his side, guiding the woman forth to his tent. The men regarded him with a note of obvious surprise, and he matched this with a stern expression. They fell in line to obey.

     Within his sparse tents Strand gestured that she should sit, unable to not make note of the grace with which she stepped and the carelessly seductive sway of her hips. He swallowed hard, watching her as she took her seat at the rough wooden bench, her wise and captivating eyes seeming to consume her surroundings.

     “Where did the blood come from?” Strand inquired as he poured water for the woman, pressing the clay cup into her hands. She folded her fingers about it, her eyes casting down to the blood staining her garments. _She’s a pretty sight,_ whispered the voice, despite the condition of her robes. A sight indeed. And it had been so long… he hadn't seen a woman of such absolute and specific beauty in many years. He’d nearly forgotten how fierce women could be, until she provided her answer.

     “This… it came from one of your men,” her earnest, though not eager, response. He regarded this woman with a shock that would prove apparent upon his face. She met this with an amiable smile, admittedly faint and hollow, and sat quietly as the tent flaps parted. The priestess was wary of his man, Strand noted, and did not speak as he placed down their meal, her figure pushed back away from the table and from his possible reach.

     “One of my men?” Strand echoed. Aleksandra nodded.

     “You appear surprised, General Strand.” She reached for the bread provided and, with care, tore a healthy piece from the loaf. Her thin, pale fingers spidered around the dark crust in stark contrast. “It's not a shock that you are… this not a typical thing. But I did what my goddess would have asked. I'm certain a general like yourself knows his actions, even in war, could have cost him his life under law.”

     Strand did know, and though such rules were often not practiced by generals under war, he held his soldiers accountable for the choices they had made against his orders. A different man might have sent this woman to death for her actions, but he could not fault her for protecting herself and her temple. _Cannot fault someone so beautiful anyway_ a voice answered in his mind.

     “For what does a priestess of the temples want with a general such as myself?” Strand put to her, rather than acknowledge to himself that voice which knew his own thoughts as well as he. The woman smiled, but it was an expression that proved grim.

     “I’m worried that you might be in danger, General.” Aleksandra frowned as she sunk the hard bread in her hand into the oil pot before her. She brought it then to her mouth and took a slow bite, the oil glistening at her lips. Strand wanted to reach out his thumb and wipe it away as a bead drifted down, his hand was migrating close when her pink tongue flashed out and caught the oil. A stirring he had not known for a time caught him off guard, and he stiffened where he sat, straightening his form.

     “Danger?” Strand echoed hollowly. The woman nodded.

     “I’ve seen... things, General Strand, strange things in the flames, and in reality too. They haunt my mind, I cannot sleep, and though you are a stranger, I worried for you. I fear for your safety without explains too . This valley is cursed, and you meet Hades himself here if you do not take care.”


	4. 1893 - The Art of Tarot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex Reagan takes a stroll through Regent's Park with the esteemed Doctor Strand and discusses the nature of magic and belief.

     “Do you own a tarot deck, Miss Reagan?” the well known and renowned Doctor Richard Strand inquired. They were in Regent’s Park, strolling together through the pathways along the sprawling lawns of the Inner Circle, the smell of blossoming cherry trees and their snowy petals fluttering through what was a gentle breeze. It had been a fortnight since the events of Doctor Strand’s study at her parlor, and Alexandra had found herself quite stunned to have received an invitation from the man himself -though she suspected by the effeminate curl of the lettering that perhaps it was one of his women associates who had done the writing. Alex had arrived to the park by cab with Nic as her escort, and he had passed her off warily to the man. She had told not even he, her most trusted brother and confidant, of the strange, inexplainable blur of her visions and the sensation of deep knowing in regards to Strand, though they had discussed in depth the reaction produced from the board. Now as they meandered, Alex wondered for what the good doctor had come. Was it for his scientific pursuits, as his recent inquiry would suggest? She turned to look out to him from beneath her parasol, and would smile as kindly as one could when their thoughts are preoccupied with the investigation and deciphering of they to whom a gaze is directed.

     “Actually, Doctor Strand, I don't,” she answered pleasantly. “I’ve used them before of course, but I found them…” she trailed off, searching for the proper word.

     "Lackluster?” Strand provided, a wry smile claiming his lips which made him look handsome, pleasant even. Alex laughed.

     “Useless.”

     He cocked his head. “Useless?” The disbelief in his features, the questioning in his cool blue eyes and even the positioning of his body, shifted to face her directly, displayed a sharp interest in what she had just said.

     “They’re just cards,” Alexandra answered with a delicate shrug. “Just playing cards. I work to channel the energies of spirits. To connect with the otherworldly beings of all points in history. She paused, examined his face thoroughly. “What prompted you to ask?”

     “Data, Miss Reagan. Data.”

     Her brow would arch and she would slow her steps. “Then this invitation…” Alex frowned, and would consider his expression seriously. “Your intentions are further research? Into myself and this field… Your theories?”

     Richard too slowed, appearing confused. “I'm sorry if I've offended you, Miss Reagan, or have not been so transparent with you. It was at Melissa’s suggestion that I invite you here, isolated from your place of work.”

     Alexandra put on a stern face. “Then you purposefully put me in a position where I wouldn't be capable of proving what you disbelieve. That doesn't seem much like the procedure which would prove the most true scientific response, does it, Doctor Strand?”

     She and her companion (who was by now cheerily awake within her mind and taking note of the conversation) enjoyed too well the redness which crept upon his neck. “At any rate, that hardly matters now. We’re both here already. We were on the subject of tarot cards?”

     Strand took a moment to process these rapid shifts in points, and nervously fingered at the silver case of his pocket watch, collecting himself before they would return to wandering the park. “You said they were useless. Unsuitable for you. Why?”

     “As I said, they're just painted playing cards. A twist of cultures which are not ours to take, the direct result of our endless need to take things we don't understand and make it stranger, even more alien. Men take the games of other people and apply magic and fantasy to them because they like to other the world. There's no real purpose to tarot, it's just a random system of luck and belief.”

     For the first time, Doctor Strand looked well and truly pleased -dare she say proud?- of her. “Then you believe they're not magical.”

     “Not in any way.”

     “Hm.” The good doctor nodded, slipping away his watch. He was smiling to himself, an expression which he hid as he paused to glance across the fields. There were lovers all about, sitting at picnics or holding hands as they walked, and she wondered on the thoughts of any who had seen them, she so many years younger than he. It was a meaningless thought, but she cared not to linger much more on the premise of there ever being reason for talk.

     “Hm, what?” Alex countered, drawing Strand back into her story and their entwining narrative.

     “It simply isn't often, Miss Reagan, that I find those in this line -your line- of employment who would turn down the prospect of quick profits for their own personal standards.”

     She huffed out angrily at this, her lashes flashing heavily over narrowed eyes, her brows pressed into a deep furrowing of irritation. “You excuse my work to ideas of thieves and pickpockets. I've already told you, Doctor Strand, that I am in no way a charlatan.” Alexandra sighed and shook her head. “I imagine that it must be hard for you to understand all of this, what with your firm disbelief and despise for the field, but please try to understand that I -and many others- believe in this. It's not a game for show or profits, and it's more even than simply my way of life. This is how I help people. How I reach out for them, to provide closure. I am not a fortune teller with ridiculous props of crystal balls and illusionist’s materials. My work is not in cheating good people out of their money. That is not my way.”

     “Then what is your way?”

     “Through the talking board, as you saw demonstrated. And other methods. Souls are attracted to certain vessels, certain objects. Certain people, even, who have the ability to channel the energies of those not belonging to this world.”

     He halted her before she could continue. “You would consider yourself this sort of a person?” Doctor Strand appeared interested in this possibility. There was a certain hunger in his eyes, met with a self serving satisfaction that displeased her greatly. Alex took a moment to sigh, to gather her thoughts and cast her gaze by way of a small group of women archers across the lake, friends who stood in the circles of intimate closeness granted to those of the fair gender. They were laughing cheerily in a direct contrast to her feelings currently towards the strange and intriguing man who stood by her side, both angering and fascinating, an irritant that she perhaps did not so much mind. She stood there in silent watch as a green gowned woman drew back her bow to land a sloppy shot, laughing cheerily despite her miserable aim.

    “Look at those women, Doctor Strand. What do you see?”

     “Miss Reagan?” the doctor uttered back in confusion. She twisted her head to peer back his way, boring her eyes into his own until he acquiesced, and followed her own gaze. Doctor Strand watched for a time, before shaking his head in what she supposed was impatience. “Simply two women practicing at a bow.”

     "And you don't doubt that the ability to do this is her own?” She nodded to the cream gowned blonde who had taken to assisting her friend, her white and brown hat set back to hang upon her neck for the time. “Despite never seeing them practice, not watching their skills blossom and grow?”

     “Archery is an ancient sport, and it does not go against what is known by the scientific community at large, Miss Reagan. It's hardly equatable to claiming contact with spirits and creatures that are not really there, because they do not and never have existed.”

     “No?” She rounded on him fiercely, pressing closer, her every forward step met with a hesitant one back of his own until her smaller, yet not unimposing figure had pressed his back to the trim hedges of the park. “And what about Galileo, who went against what was known then by the scientific community you so praise to declare that our view of all things was, in fact, wrong?”

     He rose to make himself even taller over her small form, needle straight and with burnin blue eyes. “Galileo went against the church. Men of science for hundreds of years and even into the Roman and Egyptian times have known what he has preached.”

     “And learned men have also known that this is not where our realm ends, Doctor Strand. You were in my parlor, you took great care in seeking out any device or invention which might skew your data or provide false results. And you found none. With your own eyes you witnessed the miracle of what exists outside of our realm of understanding, and in the true nature of your absolutely closed mind you continue to deny that there are things which you don't understand. How can you say to me now that there was not a truth to it? That why you felt was not very real?”

     His face twisted. “I believe all things to be natural and with explanation-”

     She cut him off. “That isn't what I said, doctor. I don't care about your beliefs of the natural and explainable. I care about what you felt.”

     “Feelings are inconsequential, Miss Reagan. This is science. Pure and simple science which will one day have the ability to disprove anything you might perceive as having supernatural origins.” He spoke this firmly, but the effect was ruined when his eyes had to flash away from her own stare as soon as the words had been uttered.

     “If feelings were so unimportant to your research Doctor Strand, then I have to question your reaction.” She turned her head, captured his gaze again with the forcible lock of her own until he was made to look into her eyes and see give seriousness with which she spoke. “You placed yourself in a skeptic’s position, but gave yourself to fear during the session. Your response shows more belief than you would like to display.”

     “Fear is a natural human reaction when met with alien stimuli,” the esteemed Richard Strand responded in a proclamation of self defense. Alex laughed.

     “That's not a suitable explanation. You quite clearly demanded that I end my session after I very obviously disproved whatever theory you had on the mechanics of the talking board. Your reaction with the naming of the spirit was so negative I could feel the immediate shift in your being from skeptical to belief.”

     “A momentary weakness,” he responded. But his resolve, his defense, it was breaking, cracking. He had not even had the thought to provide a sharp retort in regards to her sensing of his aura. Alex sighed, and would twist the parasol over her shoulder as she pressed forward to Regent’s Street to hail a cab.

     “You're doubtful of me, Doctor Strand, but I know what I experienced. Come back to my parlor privately, just yourself, and we’ll revisit more deeply the energy.”

     His face pinched but the good doctor begrudgingly agreed. As Alex climbed into the carriage, she turned her head back and glanced to the man. “And you should stay away from whoever Coralee is. No good can come of a force like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This chapter was inspired (and named for) the Stuff Mom Never Told You episode The Art of Tarot, and all tarot related knowledge stems from there.


	5. Present Day - Origin Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex and Doctor Strand take a visit to a man about a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features heavy canon divergence following about 2.01 or 2.02

It started with a case. Famous last words, she supposed. It was a miracle, Nic has uttered once to her -and only once- that neither of them had ended up like Lia Haddock. At least, Alex thought, not yet. 

The season had just started, and they had been chasing down a relic discovered by a man who'd sworn it allowed him to travel back through time. It wasn't really their thing, but they'd been finding themselves only at empty corners and Alex had convinced Doctor Strand that he would be doing the man a service. Which was how she found herself driving down the highway to Lemon Grove with the esteemed and well known Doctor Richard Strand muttering about psychotropic drugs at her side. Alex found small graces in the fact that it had made him shave his face and tame the war zone which had become his hair, even if he was being particularly insufferable. Doctor Strand might've been able to pull off the conspiracy hipster look, but that didn't mean it didn't make her uncomfortable. He looked better now, more himself once she'd convinced him into going. Privately, Alex thought he needed a break from demons just as much as she did.

  
"I don't understand what you hope to achieve by coming here," Strand's voice filtered through her thoughts. Alex's head inclined, she merged onto their exit and slowed about the curve which led her past a gas station and ancient, decrepit antique store she theorized must've been older than the contents within it. Her gaze turned, darted towards the man, biting back a teasing retort that would have felt natural three months before. She would be honest here.

 

"There are no other leads," Alex confessed. "Other than yours," the journalist hastily added. "And that..."

 

"It's complicated," Strand agreed reluctantly. There was a break, a sort of silence between them that might've been comfortable if it was not so heavily laid with their past and all the things they didn't know how to vocalize. Strand must've noticed it, must've felt a desire to fill it before Alex tried the same. "What of the Yi woman?"

 

"Rebecca?" Alex replied, astounded that Strand had made the inquiry himself. She gathered her emotions rapidly, composing herself before she could display too much of the shock that had overcome her briefly. "I sent her to a friend of mine, a family therapist."

 

Doctor Strand was, for a long time, quiet. Then his eyes focused back on her features. "You don't believe her?"

 

"No..." Alex sighed. "I don't. I don't think she's telling the truth. It felt... I don't know, I guess it felt too easy." She shrugged. "There was too much of it, all at once."

 

Strand looked at her long and hard, not speaking nor making comment on this for some time. In fact, the two sat together in quiet for the rest of the ride. Alex found herself pushing through the town, to what could only laughably be called a city. It was a series of roads dotted with potholes and run-down national businesses, economically depressed at best. Here and there an odd shop would take up roots like roses in a bed of weeds, something to catch her attention in the darkness which clouded that place. At last Alex came to the center, the one beautiful heart, glass framed like cubic zirconia pretending to be a real diamond. A library stood as a center of development across from an ancient town hall, what was shiny and new against the relics of the past. Alex stepped out, sunlight hitting her face in a golden curtain. She didn't take time to marvel at the building, or wonder why a professor who had made such a discovery would choose to come here, of all places. That sort of thought was Richard's line of work, after all.

 

"This way," she informed Doctor Strand certainly, bringing him across the parking lot.

 

The inside of the library was air conditioned, so much of a contrast against the stagnant warmth of the world outside that it immediately brought goosebumps to her flesh. Everything was clean, well swept and wiped down, sterile. Alex crossed the room, to the front desk. At it sat a college student who looked to be like a poster child, like the image of what parents wanted their children to be but what they could never achieve. Everything here was so perfectly precise. It certainly wasn't what Alex had expected of the city's public center. She strode closer to the desk, pushing her brown hair from her eyes as she set them upon the younger man.

 

"Excuse me, could you tell me where-"

 

"Basement," the student replied, not looking up from his screen as he typed rapidly. Alex blanched.

 

"Excuse me?"

 

The student lifted his head, Alex saw that his eyes were such a rich, dark color that pupil and iris were nearly inseparable. Stranger yet, she thought for a moment only that they seemed to have a deep amethyst glow behind them.

 

"Doctor Maru. Basement level. He had inventory to attend to."

 

 _He must've informed the staff we were coming,_ Alex thought. She thanked him, leading Strand to the elevator they were directed towards, and into the bowels of the library.

 

-

 

Doctor Maru was a pleasant looking man with dark skin and a sort of wit within his eyes, a sprouting of white whimsically twirled into the kinks of his brown hair. He wore an infectious smile that proved effortless and charming in equal measure, the sort of man who could master a suit jacket over joggers and a band-tee. He was carefully deconstructed, and yet entirely composed.

 

"Miss Reagan!" he cheerfully exclaimed. "And Doctor Strand, a pleasure to meet a fellow academic!"

 

Doctor Strand appeared wary. "Miss Reagan has informed me you have a rather interesting artifact," he responded, cold and to the point. If he noticed, Doctor Maru didn't say a word on the fact. Instead, he nodded, delight still shimmering upon the nutted bronze of his handsome cheeks.

 

"Yes." Circling around the table at which he had worked, the doctor crossed the room towards a glass case. Changing his gloves and retrieving a key, he carefully removed an object within, bringing it forth towards them both to be examined.

 

The object in question was a round disk which appeared to display the sun, though coiled in the center there was a serpentine figure.

 

"Is that..."

 

"Gold, Miss Reagan, yes." Doctor Maru nodded. "Gold much purer than its age would lead us to expect."

 

"When have you dated this piece to?" Doctor Strand inquired, standing back a bit, his brow arched with a note of superiority that he too often wore.

 

"The late fifteenth century," answered Doctor Maru. "Likely around the time of the conquistadors's arrival, at the turn of the era. You will see here-" Doctor Maru's gloved index finger pointed delicately towards the center, "that this is a snake shedding its skin. To many cultures of the region in which this disk was found, such was the symbol of rebirth."

 

"Rebirth?" Alex returned.

 

"Reincarnation. The coming of a spirit again."

 

"You said in your email that this disk... It made you travel in time?" Now, her brow could not help but to arch. Doctor Maru again nodded.

 

"I found it whilst I was doing excavation work. Primarily, I work with a group of archeologists. They were searching to find a city that recent translations suggests exists within Peru -one built to hide the native citizens from the dangers of the encroaching Spaniards." He held out the disk. "I had been removing some rocks from the area when I came across this. As soon as my fingers touched it, there was a flash of light, and then I had entered into a world not our own. The people there were more like those indigenous to the land -but they were miserable. Their faces showed the burdens of a hard life, of great labor."

"May I hold it?" Alex asked politely, spur of the moment. She could already imagine Nic's voice the next day. " _Don't touch the precious ancient artifact, Alex. You might drop it."_  Doctor Maru surprisingly however, held little of these concerns. He nodded, and turned his back to retrieve gloves.

 

"When this... Vision you claim you saw occurred, what time was it?" Doctor Strand put in, the cold edge in his voice mounting.

 

"I don't make any claims." Doctor Maru turned back to them, handing they each a set of gloves. "I know quite certainly what I saw. As for the time, it was little after noon."

 

A twinge of a smile cast over Strand's face. Alex knew it was his own of personal victory. But she did not make comment not speculation on this, slipping the gloves over her hands as Strand continued to press Doctor Maru for details of his _trip_.

"Might I hold it?" Alex again asked, interrupting the inquisition before Strand could further badger the man. Doctor Maru extended his hand.

 

"You must be very careful with it -a discovery such as this is priceless."

 

"Of course."

 

Wearing still an expression of hesitation, Doctor Maru delicately surrenderwd the object into Alex's waiting palm. Alex had to admit a sense of disappointment within her when nothing happened. This must have showed on her face, for Doctor Maru laughed.

"It hasn't worked for myself either, not since the initial trip I'm afraid. I have the same hope every time I lift it up."

 

Strand scoffed. "We're wasting our time here, Alex. Clearly Doctor Maru-" he used his title with a condescending air, "was lost to the heat of the day and began to hallucinate. This disk is nothing more than a symbol pertaining to ancient villages. It has archeological importance but no supernatural effect." Strand reached out for the disk, perhaps to return it to the doctor and usher her out. She didn't have the time to speculate, however, for as Doctor Strand's fingers brushed over her own and the golden disk, it began to emulate a light. The world began to shake in violent tremors, and then the light grew so blinding that it threatened to consume her totally.

-

When she could see again, the first thing to befall her eyes was Doctor Strand, wearing an alarmed expression. 


	6. 412 B.C.E: Ash and Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is something within the woods that cannot be explained. Something dark and strange. Aleksandra tries to warn him.

     "What sort of things?"

  
     The question was out from his lips before he could even think to ask it, before he could remind himself of logic and decorum. He felt a child again, gathered about the fire as the elder boys spoke of sorcerers in the hills and the wrath wrought upon their people by angry, jealous gods. Indeed, the world seemed now a little darker, the flames' flicker growing quicker. Even his heart appeared to beat faster.

  
_It couldn't be her beauty, could it?_ teased the voice in his mind. General Straton might have rolled his eyes, were he in private.

  
     "It is not for the ears of good men who need sleep," the priestess warned, smoke and cinder in her voice. But Straton's hunger was awoken now, his eyes betraying the eagerness to know what stories she could weave, to be entranced more fully by her. The priestess, like a Persian mind reader, knew his thoughts and continued through without further hesitation.

  
     "Before you came to us there was first a plague. It was created by the shadows themselves, the spirits who live in the mountain caves. Many died, caught ill at night and lived only long enough to spread the contagion before Hades ordered cut their threads. The streets were cast in blood and bile, and all which I could do was shut the temple doors and cast smoke through the halls to cleanse them of that vile illness. It was the same remedy I offered to those that did listen, to the wives made widows who wept at their husbands' sides, or to the children who had age enough to find some personal strength. No poultices could cure it, no medicines could calm it, not even prayer could be heard by the gods upon Olympus over the sounds of those who lay in anguish dying. It was fire at last which made us clean, fire for the dead."

  
     "You burned the corpses," he inferred, his attention still rapt. Aleksandra nodded, her eyes askance, expression heavy  

  
     "Those which we could. A great fire was constructed here, within this valley. We had hoped it would be the end of things. But when the fire had gone out and cinder alone remain, when we came for the bones to bury them, they were not left."

  
     "Not left?"

  
     "Not even ash," she confirmed. "There was nothing to be had of those whom we had lost. It is a terrible thing, even you may know, to leave a body without burying it. A curse upon a soul that they might never rest again. A curse upon those who are negligent in their duties. We meant to lay them to sleep within the earth -but now they will walk it forever."  
   
     "And could it not have been any beast? Surely there are wolves-"  
   
     "Several hundred of our people -half of our population- were lost, General. Not even a pack of wolves could have done such a job." The priestess, Aleksandra, shook her head firmly. "Wolves could not do that."

  
     Strand sighed. "Then what do you suppose it to be?"

  
     "I do not know."

  
      "Don't your fires tell you?" pressed the general, who had never been one for prophetic tales. Few had been gifted with such a power by the gods; the rest were false teachers bent upon the destruction of their good society.

  
     "The gift does not work that way." Her fingers captured a piece of lamb, smoked as the soldiers had it, for light and easy travel. Straton watched its progression to her lips, her teeth piercing into it. "I do not expect you to understand."

 

-

  
     That night he lay awake to ponder what the woman had told him, his thoughts consumed by little else. He had tried to reason with her, but the priestess had a logical contradiction to all which he might pose against the mystery she had placed before him. Truly, he had to admit, it would be an extraordinary feat that ash and bone alike could be so swiftly and completely brought away when it was of such a vast collection. No, Straton decided privately, this must have been done by man. But what sort of foul person would commit such an act, or even could? The general knew not.

  
 _Perhaps it was not man_ , uttered that voice, that menace within his mind.

  
     Impossible, he thought. Yet a nagging tugged within him. Nothing was impossible, was it?

 

-

 

     The next morning, it was a bloodcurdling scream which awoke him. 


	7. 1893 - The Fairer Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When an old friend appears upon Alexandra Reagan's doorstep, so does a mysterious woman with an eerie warning: to stay away from Doctor Richard Strand, at all costs.

     It was early morning yet and Alexandra Reagan's parlor was once more cast in the glow which came off the candles about her table, cutting through the gloom of a dreary London day. Seated before her in a finely crafted seat with delicate gold embroidery, a blonde woman sat, an expression of intelligence claiming the snowy tones of her features. Serious eyes of the most startling quality glanced overtop a teacup of fine French vintage, Alex's most favorite set, and then their owner would place this down to look at the woman whose parlor she currently occupied.

     "Alexandra-"

     But hardly the last syllable of the name had come out before there would come an impatient knock upon the door. The woman would laugh, her expressive face sparkling with good humor. Alex, however, gave a disappointed sigh.

     "That must be a client," she foresaw. "I should send them away, you've only just arrived."

     But Amalia was already stood, adjusting her bustle with a gallant sweep of her hand. "Nonsense, Alexandra, I cannot keep you from your work. Perhaps it is this Doctor Strand you have wrote me so much of in your letters." She grinned with a flirtatious mischief, drawing nearer yet to her friend. Alex flushed, taking to her feet as well.

     "Do not say such. The man is a devil made flesh, with twice the charm and good features as any imagining of Lucifer has ever had."

     A laugh then escaped Amalia as they two stepped from the parlor, sun cast in a resplendent rainbow through the stained glass. Alex embraced her dear old companion at the door, holding her by the arms. "Come visit me again soon, won't you promise it? Nic will be eager to see you."

     "He always is. And you are too, no?" With her smile of secrets, Amalia leant down to place a delicate kiss upon the high of the shorter woman's cheek, not bereft of the affection one might expect from the parting gesture of a once lover, her hand skimming down to Alex's wrist. "I will be seeing you soon enough. Perhaps you can entertain me more with thoroughly with stories of your recent adventures."

    _Perhaps we could,_  teased Alex's  companion, staining her cheeks a deeper red than the subtle hint on Amalia's tongue as her touch drew away. She stepped forth further, through the door and into the city streets. But the young woman could not long watch her friend go, nor linger long in thought, for in her passing Amalia had to slip past a woman whom Alex found to be worthy of much note. This woman, who stood before the threshold, was dressed richly in a striking gown of a particularly deep crimson. She had a face which might appear foreign to a native of London, with wizened brown eyes and a completion of a similar shade. In her mind, there was a sudden, angry haze, and a deep fog seemed to overcome Alex for a moment, if only to be replaced by a stabbing pain like many a blade into her scalp.

    "Miss Reagan?" inquired the mystery figure as Alex tried to blink away the pain. "Miss Alexandra Reagan?"

     "That name is mine." She rubbed her temple, her gaze focusing upon the woman. "Have you come in search of my services?"

     "Your services?" The woman would arch high a bold brow, her expression briefly quizzical before her eyes passed to the wood and bronze-framed sign mounted beside the door. _Alexandra Reagan, Medium_ it read simply. A look of understanding, perhaps even humor, came over the wonderful face of the woman before her, before settling into seriousness. "No Miss Reagan, I have come with a warning."

    "A warning?" echoed she suspiciously, and her head throbbed once more.

     "Stay away from Richard Strand, Miss Reagan. You will be safer if you heed this."

-

    "And she gave you no name?"

     "None at all," Alex confirmed, the pain she had experienced before having dimmed some. "She simply disappeared into the streets before I might even accuse her of laying a threat against my being."

      Doctor Strand's expression was stern as he looked upon Alexandra. He was considering her, his features appearing to be clouded with thought as they drifted away to digest the information provided. "The woman... Describe her for me again." It was a request he made with the tone of desperation belonging to a man long to the drink.

      "She was tall. Remarkably tall, several centimeters above my own height. Her skin was warm to look upon, rich brown and pleasant to look upon." Alex provided these details, the image of the woman fresh still in her mind. She had sent a telegram for Richard directly after the woman had disappeared -barring, of course, the time in which her initial shock had to be met- and the doctor had come at once. She suspected he must have been working away in his offices, for when he entered there had been chalk upon his smart black suit and a smudge of lead crossing his brow. The man had yet to righten himself, to which she assumed he must be ignorant thusly of these details. Since meeting him, Alexandra had supposed Doctor Strand to be the sort of man who cared like Narcissus after his own appearamce but for when it might interrupt his train of deep thought. Indeed, the waistcoat which he wore was -unbeknownst to her- from a quite prominent tailor upon Savile Row. Yet none of these material things could matter now, when Richard was looking so intently at her, as though staring into the depths of a soul he did not believe in might provide some sort of clue. She felt like the missing piece to a puzzle he had long bent over in hours of tedium. Then, in a fit of sudden energy, Doctor Strand rose and began to pace the room.

     "Doctor Strand?" Alex inquired. The man ignored her, continued to pace. "Doctor Strand?" Her voice was louder now, seeking to garner his attention. The man inclined his head, passed a glance her way. His eyebrow rose significantly, and though he did not stop Alex assumed this must be a signal that she had some portion of his attention.

     "Why are you pacing, Strand? What are you thinking?"

"Do you have any enemies, Alex?" he replied instead. She stared hard at him, choosing to wave her flag at this battlefield.

     "As many as any in my profession, I suppose." This earned an expression of interest and -perhaps more valuable in this moment- a slowing of his pace. She continued. "You are not wrong to think that there are many distrustful, disreputable persons who have used this profession to take advantage of others. But to my great personal frustration, clients sometimes believe that what they wish to hear is all that they _will_  hear -the result of capitalizing bastards who take advantage of grief." She spoke strongly, so much so that Doctor Strand started at her heated speech. "It has earned too many good persons unnecessary sorrows to expect joyous words from those whom they love, and to sometimes find the other is still burdened as they were on earth or, worse yet to such a consumer, that they may find no response at all. Not all spirits will speak. Others have simply moved on."

     He gave a muted grunt she suspected might have held some sort of amusement, a huff of breath passing by so softly it might not have been noticed. Alex watched the man, whose long legs carried him thrice across the length of her floor before he turned. Striding across the rich, vibrant rug, Strand took a seat beside her.

     "This woman..." He would pause, and Alex thought he must have felt each word to be of precious value. It was as though they had the value of an ounce of gold to each syllable for how carefully he considered them. "Did she wear a pendant about her throat?"

     Alex would stare with a sudden, heightened intrigue at the doctor who had swept through her life like one of those tornados she had heard of in the west of those American lands. "Yes," she answered slowly, curiously. "How did you-"

     But Richard Strand gave no answer, jumping abruptly up with an energy she might not have expected in a man so successfully passing through age. "A great many apologies, Miss Reagan, but I must be on my way."

     "Doctor Strand!" Alex called out in protest. The doctor did not answer, hurrying from her parlor and out the door to his coach. Alex watched after, astonished to see the man disappearing into the early afternoon.


End file.
